In the Mood for Love: A Cupcake Lovers Novel (The Cupcake Lovers)

by Beth Ciotta

  “Eventually.”

  “Maybe you should rent it out instead,” Harper said. “What if things go bad between us?”

  “I’ve got two years to avoid that scenario.”

  Two years for them to fall in love.

  Although she’d be granted conditional residency and a green card after they wedded, the USCIS required married couples to prove their marriage was still intact two years later in order to be eligible for permanent residency. If Harper wanted to become a U.S. citizen she’d have to keep up the pretense of a real marriage for at least two years.

  She shifted her gaze to the passing landscape. Between the rolling fields and the verdant shrubs and trees, it was like sailing through a sea of green. Even the distant mountains—which, come autumn, would burst with yellow, orange, and red—stretched and peaked in endless shades of emerald and jade. Vibrant wildflowers and the occasional red barn added color to the sparsely populated countryside. Beautiful, but remote. By Harper’s standards anyway. No malls or shopping strips or multiplex movie theaters. No superstores or deluxe fitness spas. With the exception of outdoor sports, the cultural scene in Sugar Creek extended to the Sugar Shack, Moose-a-lotta, the library, and the new bowling alley. A bit constricting for someone who’d lived in two metropolitan cities. Granted, Harper wasn’t keen on frequenting crowded establishments just now, but what about when her fear from the shooting subsided?

  “What if I’m not cut out for small-town living?” she blurted. “Or what if I build a new client list that requires me to live in L.A. or New York? Would you be willing to relocate? Or to maintain a long-distance relationship?”

  “Why don’t we take this a day at a time?”

  Harper blinked over to the man behind the wheel. “Is that a maybe?” She hadn’t expected that. “You and the kids are homegrown Sugar Creek.”

  “Is that your subtle way of saying we’re hicks?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I just can’t imagine you and the children moving away from friends and family. Not to mention the culture shock.”

  “You know that old saying ‘Home is where the heart is’?” He waited a beat then added, “Time will tell.”

  Harper focused back on the road. She wondered if Sam could hear the pounding of her heart. He flipping scared her … and excited and inspired her. She didn’t respond because she didn’t know what to say. For a business arrangement he was making this terribly personal. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She hadn’t had a single clear thought since that smoldering kiss.

  Out of habit she checked her phone. She used to get a hundred voice mails, texts, e-mails, and PMs per day. It was already midday and she’d only gotten twelve. One had been Sam, one Daisy, nine had been junk mail, and the last—confirmation on her cleaning supply order. How had she fallen off the map so fast and so thoroughly? She knew for a fact that there were plenty of celebrities in need. People spinning out of control or people who’d crashed and burned. People desperate for someone to pick up the pieces and to put things right. Harper used to be that someone. She needed to be that someone.

  “Here we are.”

  Harper blinked out of her thoughts. She’d lost track of time. Instead of speeding through the countryside they were entering a picturesque neighborhood. Each house occupied a large plot of land, far enough apart to allow for privacy, close enough to jog over in your jammies to borrow a cup of sugar. Sam steered his pickup into a gravel drive and Harper noted a beautiful two-story home—a snowy white saltbox with black-shuttered windows and a bright red front door. Cheery and family oriented right down to the white picket fence, the tire swing hanging from the branch of a large maple tree, and the little yellow bicycle (augmented by pink handlebar tassels and a matching basket) leaning haphazardly against a hedge.

  As was his way, Sam helped Harper out of the cab and escorted her to his front stoop. Her stomach knotted. Anticipation. Dread. She noted the unusual “sign” decorating the door—an antique-stained turquoise picture frame with a pewter WELCOME plaque in the center, topped with a jade-green bow. A charming and unique contrast to the red door. “Did you make this?” Harper asked.

  “I tried to interest Ben in woodworking. He picked this project out of a magazine but lost interest after choosing the colors.” Sam shrugged as he slid his key from the lock. “I guess that makes it a joint venture.”

  It was the second time today Sam had noted Ben’s lack of interest in building things. So the boy wasn’t his father’s son. Hmm.

  Sam opened the front door, revealing a page in his life. Harper got a whiff of air freshener. Something flowery. Probably one of those plug-in things. She tried to imagine Sam skimming the grocery shelves for room fresheners, but it didn’t compute. Her next surprise was the living room. She’d expected leather furnishings—something manly—or generic bargain furniture, something kidproof. Yet the sectional sofa and matching club chairs were plush and awash with vivid color. So were the walls. And the curtains. So much cheer and whimsy. So not Sam.

  Paula.

  Feeling like an intruder, Harper hugged herself against conflicting emotions as Sam led her into the dining room then through the kitchen. She hoped she looked more casual—arms crossed, posture lax—than intimidated. She wasn’t merely getting a peek into Sam’s life, but into Sam’s life with Paula. Clearly his wife had influenced the colors and themes. Clearly, Sam hadn’t changed so much as a throw pillow since her death. Or he’d added or replaced items in keeping with her taste. Harper realized that by moving out of their house, Sam was cutting ties with their past. By marrying Harper, he wasn’t only gaining a mother for his children. He was creating a new life for himself. It made her feel better to think that they were both marrying as some means of escape. It made things less personal. It also gave her purpose. Sam needed her. He needed her in order to move beyond Paula. Beyond his old life. If Harper could pave the way for Sam’s future happiness, surely her soul, and his, would benefit.

  Even as she brainstormed the future, she commented on the present. “Considering you have two young, active kids this place is unbelievably tidy.”

  “I picked up after they left. Trust me. It doesn’t always look like this.”

  He led her upstairs and on the way Harper got a visual sense of Ben and Mina throughout the years. The stairway wall was cluttered with countless mismatched frames of the children at various stages of their lives. There were also pictures of Sam and Paula. Harper tried not to linger, but they made an impression. They’d been happy and they’d been in love. Both Daisy and Rocky had mentioned what a sweet soul Paula had been. That sweetness radiated from her pictures, from this house. It was … nice.

  Harper tore her gaze from the last picture to Sam’s broad back. She’d been anything but nice. She’d been snarky, shallow, bossy, and manipulative. Most recently she’d been a basket case. And she was his means of escape?

  She cleared the landing and Sam motioned her through the first door on the right. “This is Mina’s room. You want to know her? Look around.”

  Harper moved into the five-year-old’s room and all gloomy thoughts disappeared. Who could be worried or stressed or depressed in the midst of sweet disarray and whimsy. The room exploded with stuffed animals, dolls, playhouses, and various other toys. Pink and purple bins overflowed with clothes and shoes. Mina’s walls were painted purple—bright purple—and accentuated by fanciful illustrations—a castle, a princess, and a menagerie of mythical creatures. Entranced, Harper stepped closer and admired a doe-eyed unicorn. “Is this an appliqué?”

  “Paint.”

  “Using a stencil?”

  “Using a brush and my moderate skills.”

  Moderate? Harper’s artistic skills extended to juvenile doodles. Ask her to draw a fairy princess and you’d get a stick person with a three-point crown. “Rocky mentioned you sometimes accent your custom-made furniture with detailed flourishes and patterns, but I assumed…” She shook her head, amazed. “You drew this freehand?”
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br />   When he didn’t answer she turned and saw him leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded over his chest. He looked uncomfortable, like he was embarrassed about his artistic talents. Or maybe it was because he’d painted girly unicorns and castles instead of something more … Rambo-like.

  And he’d painted all this for his little girl.

  Shame washed over Harper when she thought about how she’d once considered Sam a monosyllabic tough guy of average intelligence. Then again, she’d never encouraged or allowed him to open up. Throughout their brief acquaintance and fling, she’d done her utmost to keep him at emotional arm’s length. She’d indulged in the fierce physical attraction. She’d reveled in the hot sex. Because she didn’t want intimate, she’d pushed for kinky, playing out some of her wildest fantasies. Just now, surrounded by castles and tiaras, Harper wanted something in between, something romantic. Instead of Rambo, she wanted a knight in shining armor. Her vision clouded and she swore she saw Sam in full body armor. Richard Gere as Sir Lancelot. No. Clive Owen as King Arthur. Wait. Worse. Sam McCloud as Harper Day’s champion.

  “You okay?” Sam asked as he pushed off the wall.

  “Fine.” Feeling ridiculous, Harper palmed her brow. “Just … reeling. I’ve never seen so much … stuff.” She tore her gaze from Sam and focused on the twin bed overrun with more stuffed animals. Some pristine. Some terribly worn. All adorned with boas and tiaras. She noted a few scattered books. Disney tales. And a bookshelf crammed with Disney movies. Given the young girl’s animated sunshine-and-lollipops persona, Harper wasn’t surprised by her fairy tale fixation. She was, however, envious. Harper had long given up on true love and happily-ever-after.

  “And Ben’s room?” she prompted, feeling overwhelmed by Mina’s youthful optimism.

  Brow raised, Sam backed away from Mina’s threshold and moved a room down. There was still a sense of the fantastic but coming from a darker side. Ben’s walls were painted a deep blue—no illustrations—and crowded with posters of various superheroes. His shelves featured an extensive collection of action figures—all perfectly posed. His bookcase was packed but meticulous. Mostly manga and anima novels, from what Harper could see, and arranged in alphabetical or series order. No clutter on his floor or his bed. No overflowing bins of clothes. Just a favored hoodie hanging on a clothes hook. Unlike Mina, Ben was methodical. A neat freak. A brainiac geek who favored video games over live sports.

  Harper drifted toward a small desk and smiled when she saw a sketch pad. Penciled drawings—far beyond her stick figures. Superheroes kicking villainous butt. “Ben inherited your talent for art.”

  “That’s about all he inherited from me.”

  “You’re disappointed because he isn’t interested in carpentry.”

  “Or mechanics or sports or … I’m not disappointed. Just concerned. He’d rather flip pancakes than toss a ball. He’d rather read than Rollerblade. He can’t remember a thing I’ve taught him about engines and yet he can recite the history of every manga and Marvel superhero. Several of his schoolmates, other boys, they’re—”

  “Picking on him?”

  “Pretty sure Ben’s being bullied,” Sam said, “but he won’t say.”

  “Proud. He got that from you.” Harper moved about the room, noting the nuances of Ben McCloud’s world. She’d met him three times and every time he’d been timid and sullen. Except when she’d talked about Comic Con. She remembered having the intense desire to fix his young life. Given her history and experience, she knew a brewing disaster when she saw one and that was Ben McCloud.

  “Mina suffers from some sort of separation anxiety,” Sam said as Harper studied Ben’s bookshelves. “She acts all independent, but she’s not. The first days I dropped her off for kindergarten she cried and begged me not to leave her behind. The teacher said it would pass. We’re at the end of the year and it’s worse than ever. I buy her things—boas and tiaras—to make her happy. That’s part of the reason she has so much stuff.”

  “Only the bribes aren’t working,” Harper assumed.

  “I’ve handled it wrong. I know. Now she’ll expect a reward every time I want her to do something she’s not crazy about. And then there’s Ben. My son goes out of his way to please me even if he hates what I ask him to do, so I’ve started not to ask. I can’t … I need help, Harper. He likes you. Mina likes you. I…”

  “Tolerate me?” She turned and was surprised to find Sam looking at her with tender regard.

  “I admit you push a lot of buttons,” he said. “Although lately … different buttons.” He moved in, brushed strands of hair from her heated cheeks. “I’m thinking I don’t know you at all, Harper. I’m thinking I’d like you a lot if I did.”

  Her heart pounded in her ears. “It’s not like I’m a closed book.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I could reveal a few chapters, although it wouldn’t be very interesting.”

  “I’m betting different.”

  Every nerve in her body sparked as he pulled her against his body. Her mind raced, wondering if his bedroom was nearby. She couldn’t withstand the intensity of another drawn-out four-alarm kiss without having something more. Her mind exploded with racy scenarios just as he nipped her lower lip and music filled the air. No. Not music. Ring tones. Their phones were chiming in tandem. Incoming texts.

  Easing apart, both frowning, they checked their screens.

  “It’s Daisy.”

  “It’s Luke.”

  CHLOE’S IN LABOR.

  SIXTEEN

  “I feel like a party crasher.”

  “You got the text, too,” Sam said as he raced the open road toward Pixley. “Means you’re invited.”

  “But I’m not a close friend of the expecting couple,” Harper said. “Or a family member.”

  “You’re the Cupcake Lover’s publicist and Chloe’s a key member. Dev’s the most influential man in town, and Dev and Chloe’s child will be the first in the new generation of Monroes. The club’s probably expecting you to spin the arrival of a future CL into positive promotion for the recipe book.”

  “You’re part of the club. Does that include you?”

  “I appreciate anything that inspires contributions toward our targeted causes. As far as anything that involves us being in the spotlight as opposed to the book or the soldiers and their families…” He shook his head. “I know a few of the ladies are getting a rush out of the exposure—the fan mail, the local radio interview, the book signing at Burlington’s Book and Baubles, that short feature on Good Morning Vermont—”

  “The tip of the iceberg,” Harper interrupted. “I had a heavy client list before. Now I don’t. I can do better for the Cupcake Lovers.”

  “I’ve seen what you can do. What you did, what you do for Rae. That’s why I’ll be resigning from the club. One of the reasons anyway.”

  The publicist in Harper freaked. Sam was her ace in the hole. Her sizzle. Yes, the history and the mission of the club intrigued more than a few media outlets. The fact that, after several decades, the Cupcake Lovers continued the simple kindness of shipping cupcakes to soldiers overseas earned interest and gratitude and plucked at many a heartstring. They were definitely a “happy news” story. But it was the club’s one male member, former military, no less, and a phenomenal baker to boot, that generated the most traction. Especially with the visual venues. A ruggedly good-looking man who exuded the charisma of a Hollywood action star, Sam McCloud was any spin doctor’s dream.

  “Not comfortable in the spotlight,” Harper said. “Got it. But surely if someone … say as big as Brice and Kaylee called … if they wanted to book the Cupcake Lovers for their talk show…”

  “I don’t care if David Letterman knocked on my door. I’ve never been one of those people who craved their fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “A phrase coined by Andy Warhol back in the late sixties,” Harper said as she checked her phone for more messages. She was trying for nonchalant. Meanwhile she flashed on
the time one of her top (and most arrogant) clients refused to sign for another season of a popular reality show, determined to move on to more highbrow entertainment. Like that had a chance of happening. Between Harper and the client’s agent, they’d enticed Tatiana (Tah-Tah) Remington to re-up via a publicity campaign designed to stroke her monumental ego. That Harper could spin. Sam didn’t care about recognition or adoration. It was almost beyond Harper’s scope. “Warhol spoke of notoriety in the future, only he had no notion of social media. Today, most people would kill for five minutes of worldwide fame that could be achieved in a 140-character tweet if tweeted and retweeted by the right people.” She glanced over at Sam who always seemed at a loss or annoyed when she was immersed in social networking—a necessity given her line of work. “Do you even have a Twitter account?”

  “No.”

  “Facebook?”

  He shook his head.

  “Instagram? Tumblr? MySpace? I heard MySpace is making a comeback. Google Plus?”

  “There’s such a thing as sharing too much information,” Sam said. “Especially personal information. What would I tweet about?”

  Harper shifted in her seat, jazzed by the turn in conversation. Social media. Publicity. Her comfort zone. She saw a way to not only benefit the Cupcake Lovers, but Sam. “It doesn’t have to be personal, although the personal touch helps. Your primary focus could be your work. Carpentry, furniture-making, renovation. You could post pictures of your designs, your creations.”

  “I do that on my Web site.”

  “I’ve seen your Web site. Your furniture is stunning but the site … It’s static and boring and the Web design borderline amateur.”

  He raised a brow.

  Oops. “Tell me you didn’t design it yourself.”

  “I wasn’t going for flashy.”

  Two or three snarky retorts came to mind; instead Harper said kindly, “If you don’t have the time or desire to create an eye-catching, user-friendly site, you should hire a personal Web designer. Then choose one social media outlet. Just one, and start interacting—”